‘I miss you Florence – miss us. I miss just being with you.’
The topic seemed as exhausted as they were. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll think of something, and Nat?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I miss you too,’ she thought that his response would give them away but loved it anyway.
A favourite part of the day for some of the girls, was when they were sent to take the men’s food and drink out to them in the fields, at mid-day. The farmhands, out since dawn, were always ravenous – that and the fact that they were teenagers who could eat all day. She asked Cook if she could go. She missed her brother.
‘Brother is it! Mm. I warrant you do girl.’ Cook paused and asked, ‘Marry, has that butter in the parlour turned yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Florence knew her fate before it was spoken. ‘I should get back to it.’ Cook raised an eye-brow and Florence set off to hone yet another muscle group!
On the Friday, Cook asked again about the butter and Florence trotted out to the stone shelf in the dairy, proudly and smugly returning with the freshly patted butter on a tray. ‘Would you like some left in here for the pudding, Cook?’ Florence was always happy to help with anything which aided pudding.
‘Aye and put the rest back on the cold shelf - but take some out with the bread, to the fields when you go.’ Florence grinned. ‘And don’t dally talking to your . . . brother! There’s chickens out there waiting for your tender mercies!’
It was quite deliberate. Florence hovered, a little hidden behind the gaggle of girls, as they walked enthusiastically towards the waiting boys. It was one of the very few occasions when neither Cook nor Holless was present. The man really didn’t like the great outdoors.
Nat smiled at the thought of food arriving and a few minutes to stretch his back. He liked to see these youngsters have their time together and tried not to feel a little apart. Florence noticed that he didn’t really look up, having no expectations, but just waited, perched on a log, for food to arrive. Then he screwed up his eyes against the strong sunlight and saw her. She beamed at his slow, surprised grin.
She’d done it. Found some time for them to be together to . . . talk. There was definitely a hormonal scent to the air as the lively youngsters enjoyed one another’s company. In an instant, Florence saw the bloom of these girls’ lives, before an early marriage and too many babies. She saw them in full health, full of hope and life before their lives descended into servitude. One or two of them already had missing teeth. They had, of course, tested their womanly charms on Nat, waggling their hips a little as they passed him, watching for his reaction but they stopped when they got none and he looked down, smiling into his food. Even so, Florence felt a prickle of jealousy that they should try. She’d always liked his black curling hair but now saw how his dark blue eyes were set beneath black brows and marvelled at the length of his lashes. Yes, he was a little . . . grizzled, but the black and copper stubble rather suited his jaw line and he’d put a little weight on, mostly in muscle, which also suited him. Yes. Florence was glad that the girls’ attentions seemed to amuse rather than interest him.
Nat watched Florence amble towards him with a knowing smile. Her face had filled out a little – Cook’s puddings no doubt – as had the rest of her figure. She was still petite but there was a healthy roundness to her curves that swirled her skirts in that rhythmic fashion. He hair poked out from beneath the cap and her cheeks and lips were flushed with effort at carrying the hefty basket. It suited her. Neither of them noticed the nudges and winks; they had eyes only for one another.
The food and drink were set out on the back leaf of the cart and the boys helped themselves. Once they had armfuls, there was a lot of ambling into groups or pairs to rest and chat for half an hour or so, usually in the shade of a hedge or tree - all very innocent - if flirtatious. So, quite naturally, Florence wandered over with Nat to sit on the shady bank behind the hawthorn hedge while he ate. They leaned with their legs stretched out flat, crossed at the ankles, comfortable. The girls had already eaten before they left – it was easier than carrying a double load and so she sipped a cup of the flat, dry cider, heavily watered down for day time consumption, out of the horn beaker, and watched him enjoy his food – a generous hunk of a crumbling cheese, bread fresh out of the oven that morning, slathered in excellently churned fresh butter, and a couple of wizened apples – the last of the autumn’s crop before this year’s came in. Nearby, they watched the heavy horses, temporarily unhitched from the waggon, chomp the grass and flowers, thick with bees drawn in by the hawthorn. Small flies were wafted away lazily. It was the first promise of the summer to come.
‘Almost makes you forget the combustion engine doesn’t it,’ he said, mouth full of bread.
‘Almost. Bit of a Constable isn’t it?’
‘Almost – ‘cept we’re in the Hay Wain,’ she laughed.
The sun was warm and the cider slipped down sweetly, cool from the stone jug. Side by side, their thighs stretched out, almost touching, with the picnic spread across them. It occurred to Florence that this was a perfect moment in any time. As she slid her hand down towards his, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he twined his fingers in hers – crumbs and all. Mid chew, his appetite disappeared and he swallowed heavily, his hand tightening around hers, his pulse quickening in answer to her own.
There was a call from beyond the hedge which seemed very far away now, as their focus intensified on the touch and the heat of their hands, but hearing it, she tensed to move. Nat held her arm firmly and when she didn’t pull away, he pulled her kneeling form towards him, eclipsing all else. His kiss was intense and insistent, her mouth tasting of cider and butter. Florence pulled away a little and her eyes which had been closed, opened slowly. Her soft parted lips beckoned him again with a smile. This time, cradling her across him, he was sure of her response and she sought him in return.
It was all that she’d needed to know and everything that she’d wanted to tell him. Making the effort to stop, she managed to gasp, ‘Nat, the others . . . ’
‘Can’t see us here,’ he murmured, kissing her with renewed conviction. Florence was pressed against his brawny torso losing any will to resist, when he stopped abruptly, his voice distinctly husky and with panic in his eyes as he muttered, ‘God! I wasn’t thinking. Can you? Can we?’
‘I think we are doing . . . ’ Florence smiled and found his lips again.
‘No, no.’ He seemed confused, his mind arguing with his body. ‘I mean . . . we’ve . . . ’ and now she’d found his ear lobe, ‘Argh. Mm . . . ’ he pulled away. ‘This is hard . . . ’
‘Mmmmm . . . ’
‘No.’ He seemed to find the strength to say it. ‘How can we? We’ve no . . . precautions . . . I mean, I don’t have . . . well of course I don’t . . .’ he wiped his hand across his embarrassed face, ‘Unless . . . the pill?’ he finally managed to splutter, his eyes rolling into his head. He was incoherent now and she had no intention of helping him. She had not smiled once at his discomfiture but looked with wide eyes seeming to not understand and then, to his horror, she actually laughed.
‘Implants. Remember? They last for at least a year. Totally. Safe.’ She punctuated her words with kisses.
Despair to expectation in two seconds. Nat’s beaming face had just a hint of a predatory smirk in it. ‘Really. Now that’s very interesting. At least a year, eh?’
‘At least,’ she managed to say before he smothered her.
There was another call from the field to which Nat hollered, snatching his mouth away from her reluctantly, irritably, ‘A MOMENT, LADS!’ he called back over his shoulder. After a pause to enjoy another kiss, he pulled her up and led her in to the dimness of the woodland, far out of the sight of the others. It was very doubtful that they’d not been seen. ‘If they ask – they won’t’ he added hurriedly, ‘tell them I was … helping you to collect mushrooms!’ His voice was distinctly husky and Florence, thinking that they’d never believe that, w
as breathing too hard to reply. They didn’t go far, finding the shelter of a leafy dell, well hidden from the track. Old trees grew here and Nat and Florence instinctively moved to the centre of the stand, avoiding any contact with their trunks. He kneeled, still holding her hand and pulled her down gently to join him.
She grinned as they faced one another, ‘Just a ‘moment’ is it Nat Haslet?’
‘Well,’ he chuckled as his calloused hand warmed the outline of her thigh, ‘A couple of moments at least! I think that it’s time to know one another better, Florence Brock.’
Had Florence looked with an expert eye and not been so distracted, she would have quickly identified the post-ice age nature of the woodland here. Wild flowers were carpeted around – wood anemones which only spread over the course of centuries, were crushed under them. She would have seen the bright yellow celandine sparkling in the dim shade, but her heart was beating wildly and her eyes weren’t looking at the flowers. Around them the trees, acorn off-spring of a single ancient oak whose trunk had died a century earlier but whose roots still lived, stirred their leaves in the windless air. The finest tendrils of their roots dug deep into the earth beneath them, searching for the pulsating energy of the ley-lines’ power, charged and encouraged by this human vitality in their midst. They reached for the invisible surge of power from their star as they silently absorbed and then amplified the energy, their canopies electrified into seeking out the sunlight, searching for the impetus of a solar eruption. Fortunately, for Florence and Nat, there was none – that day. They were oblivious to all but themselves as they tumbled into the flowers.
His breathing was heavy beside her, relaxed, spent. She couldn’t speak, with her pulse singing loud in her ears. Finally, she said, ‘We have to go,’ extricating herself from him whilst nibbling his ear which only encouraged him.
‘We should . . . but unfortunately, you keep doing that . . .’ and he turned and rolled her into him as she struggled to get up. Disinclined to do anything but sleep, he knew that he must speak to her now, before the moment passed. ‘Florence, before we go back . . .’
She hoped that he wasn’t going to thank her! She didn’t want him to spoil this moment. She wanted to dream about it tonight and savour every second.
Nat was confident that this was the right time to raise the subject again; she was distinctly mellow and now that their feelings were clear . . . ‘You thought any more about what’s next?’ Lame, he realised.
‘Next? Well, lots more ‘moments’ I was hoping,’ and she found his nipple with her teeth.
She was making it difficult for him to concentrate.
‘Well, yeah . . . lots of those.’ Come on man. Make her understand. ‘I mean for us… when we leave here – for Oxford?’ He felt the instant coolness but pressed the point anyway. ‘Come on! You can’t really want to stay. This is not our life. Even if we don’t find the bloody watchers, we can be together out there. We could build something for ourselves. This isn’t really your home, Florrie. You must see that?’ Still she said nothing.
How could she explain it to him? How comfortable she felt here? How it terrified her that once she left, she’d be lost. They were happy, weren’t they? Couldn’t that be enough – for now? She pleaded with him, ‘Nat, let’s just be here. A few more months - perhaps next year - and we can think again. It’s a good place and we fit. We can find time for one another. Isn’t it better to have this than some dream in Oxford?’ It was an entreaty but he didn’t look convinced so she gave him the truth. ‘Nat, I can’t. I just can’t be on the road again. I wasn’t made for that. I need some . . . security. Food, a bed to sleep in. I just can’t . . . I feel that I need to be here. It’s home.’
He couldn’t speak. This was crazy! ‘I get it, Florence. I do. That wasn’t a way to live, specially for you – not for a woman. I should have realised.’
A small frown formed between her eyes.
‘But I’ve thought of something! A way to make something of ourselves while we’re here - until we find a way back to our real home.’
Always that. Why couldn’t he just accept the shit that fate had dealt them?
But he mistook her silence as the beginning of doubt. ‘Look, we give notice here and set off south-west again, take work where we can and save for a waggon and horse. They’re always looking for craftsmen. It won’t take long. And then,’ he paused here. He wanted the cleverness of his planning to impress her, ‘we start to haul coal. Saw it the other day, in the fields. The coal is so near the surface it’s ridiculous! No one knows how important the resource will be - but we do! We start our own coal merchant’s business, way ahead of the industrial revolution. Start small - but once they realise how useful coal is compared to wood, they’ll go mad for it. We know they will. We’ve been there! It’s our advantage here.’ He had to make her see how this could work. If they could have their own resources, then they might find the time to search for a tree which would transport them back, or find someone who knew how this all worked. They had evidence now that there were people out there who knew. ‘Even if we draw a blank in Oxford . . .’ His enthusiasm was not infectious it seemed.
Florence carefully brushed away the leaves, from her dress. ‘And me, Nat?’ She spoke softly. ‘I’d help, yes?’
He nodded. She was getting the idea. Her voice seemed composed, she was working it through now, he thought.
‘I could wash clothes while we saved and then haul sacks of coal, flogging them to the lords and ladies of great houses?’
He was on less sure ground now.
‘I’d make my clothes and patch yours up. Perhaps we could build a mud hut and sleep with the fucking pigs!’
This was not going the way he’d hoped.
‘And what would we do when babies arrived? How would we feed them – if I survived that is - if you fell sick or broke a leg? What exactly would our lives look like!’ She was furious now and he was incensed with the way that she’d disparaged his plan. They stared at one another, he, deflated and she, too angry for words. The ‘moment’ forgotten. ‘No Nat. That’s not for me! You must see that. Who would I be?’
‘My wife,’ he said tentatively. He’d got this completely wrong. Badly mishandled. He tried to back-track and recapture where they’d been, ‘Florence, us . . . what just happened . . . we need to be together. Don’t we?’
At this very moment, she didn’t know but she did know one thing. ‘What just happened, Nat. What we did . . . It doesn’t change my mind. Even if Montebray doesn’t turn up any clues, I’m not hauling coal – not even for you!’ She gathered herself up and left at pace, catching up with the girls walking back to the Hall, before he had a chance to stop her.
It seemed that no one had ever believed that they were siblings. If the giggling girls wanted to ask her what she’d been up to, one glance at the thunder on her face, warned them off. Nat returned to the lads who made congratulatory gestures at him and made low grunts of respect towards him.
‘Oh, fuck off!’ he spat back and they left him alone, shrugging to one another.
It was three days before they could bear to speak to one another again because they didn’t know what to say. The evening meal was very quiet at the far end of the table and the whole household had noticed it. Florence didn’t care what they all made of it. They probably thought that he’d tried it on and she’d said no. Well, let them think! In a sense, they were right. The others had the sense to let them alone in their misery – whatever it was - but Cook didn’t, taking it as a personal affront that the harmony of her kitchen was unbalanced.
Florence couldn’t always be released from kitchen duties to take the food and she didn’t pester Cook about it now, because when she was sent to the fields, it was awkward. She felt obliged to hover by Nat while he ate, but the warmth and intimacy that they’d shared was frosted over now. Cook’s winks and the knowing looks from the other girls had ceased. Cook disliked the discord and the disturbing fact that Florence wasn’t enjoying her food. It
was most unnatural.
‘Join the girls to take the food, Florence,’ she commanded. No reply. Cook put down the ladle that she’d been wielding and faced Florence across the trestle table, ‘It is time for you and Nat to settle whatever it is that is making my bread fall flat at your touch!’ she leaned in to Florence and whispered, ‘Whatever you are to one another, there is only room for harmony in this kitchen and your sour face is giving me heartburn!’ She’d meant it kindly but as Florence turned towards her, Cook was surprised to see tears filling her eyes.
‘I don’t know what we are,’ she sniffed. The pretence of siblings was long gone here.
Cook took her in her bony arms and sat down, placing a platter of honey dumplings before her. They helped a little.
‘Then you must find out, girl and you’ll not do that by hiding away in my kitchen.’
Well, what were they now? That moment between them had been joyful and Florence couldn’t deny how exciting it had been but now . . . ? There was an impasse which they couldn’t seem to overcome. Nat sincerely wished that he’d never spoken and Florence was confused. The heat of being together and the belonging that she’d felt, evaporated when Nat talked about leaving. She couldn’t. Not yet. She wanted him to know how much she liked him, wanted him around, needed him, but now she wasn’t sure if that was enough for him to stay. There were questions in her mind: if Nat left, would she go with him? Would he leave without her? She wanted to believe that it was hurting him too. She only knew that she was drawn to this place, believing that there were answers here for her if she could find them. Montebray – Locksley. How had it changed its name and why didn’t she know of Denzil Moorcroft in any of her memories of the history of her family home?
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 20